


Kata (Shape and Form)

by bobaheadshark



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: ACAB, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Barely veiled disdain mostly from her, Bechdel test pass I hope, Black Lives Matter Protests, Class Differences, Cunnilingus, Edith has had enough of his white privilege bullshit, Edith kicks his ass, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Face-Sitting, Fellas is it flirting if I physically fight my sorta kinda enemy crush, Flirting, Grappling, International Fanworks Day 2021, Judo, Kissing, London, Martial Arts, Not really how judo works I think but they all win here, One Shot, Sherlock Holmes Is Bad At Flirting, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Social Justice, Technically two shot, Vaginal Sex, all aboard the smut train, contraceptive talk, flirt fighting, mild!degradation kink, mildsub!Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29198961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobaheadshark/pseuds/bobaheadshark
Summary: “You never bother leaving Zone 1 unless it’s for a triple murder or an international hostage situation. You don’t trouble yourself with the mundane dealings of domestic abuse survivors or, god forbid, immigrants.” Edith says. She steps even closer to him and stabs a finger at his chest. “What do you know about revolution, Mr. Holmes?”----Oh hey here's a Edith/Sherlock remix via a modern AU, a coffee shop, and ACAB + BLM thrown in for good measure.
Relationships: Edith Grayston/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	1. Amber

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the movie and was like "ooh nobody has written a modern AU haha I'll do 1,500 words", and ended up with THIS. So... enjoy.
> 
> In case anyone is new to the ship, [all the context that you need...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5UEF4P6XLQ&ab_channel=WesNguyen)
> 
> Rating will go up for Chapter 2. Trust.
> 
> Thanks [Lepak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lepak/pseuds/Lepak) and S for the beta, and [Soph](https://twitter.com/LadyOfRebellion) for the sensitivity read.

* * *

_“If judo was just about winning competitions and medals, it would be merely a sport. Jigora Kano envisaged judo as a ‘michi’, or a way of life. A person well past contesting age, or who indeed has never been interested in the competitive side of judo can, by studying judo kata, find a fulfilling study, both physically and mentally”  
  
_

KATA - 形 - (noun)  
Meaning Shape, Form, Type  
  


_––-_

  
Judo is a series of calculations. And Edith finds that for once, she’s not quite sure of the answer.

Sucking in a deep breath, she runs through the exact combination of movements that might bring this mountain of a man to heel. Strength won’t do it, nor will endurance, so it has to be...

_Strategy. It’s just contact. Don’t overthink. A side hook into a leg sweep should do it. And, yeah, okay. He’s big. So what? Hit him with a Mountain Storm._

_That_ is _what the mountain storm’s for, right?_

In her line of work, Edith grapples with all sorts of people. She goes easy on her beginners, and even Eudoria – a respectable brown belt – isn’t really a true match. Mycroft, on the other hand, and on the one occasion he graced the gym, brought his own wet wipes to the gym and “didn’t believe in hitting ladies”.

Mycroft had ended up winded on his back within the first three seconds. And again. And, again.

Holmes, however, presents the first true challenge she’s had in some time. 

“Ms. Grayston, you don’t have to do this,” he says.

Now _that_ makes challenge ignite in her gut. 

Edith tightens her fists. “Anything else would be out of the question.”

And it’s hard not to notice. That he’s like, fuckoff huge. _What kind of workout regimens do man-boulders do?_ she wonders. And alright, she’s not stupid enough to lie to herself and say she’s never imagined what Holmes does in his off hours – because Edith considers herself a busy woman, and she tries not to give free real estate in her brain to the likes of him – but. He probably gets his kicks lifting dumbbell-logs in the woods, or running solo spartan races with sacks of boulders. Oxbridge sorts like him have too much money and too little sense, after all.

Edith wouldn’t know. She’s neither rich, nor foolish. 

She does know she’s irritated at how calm he is. She wants to toss a stone into that river of well-practiced placidity, just to see how it’d ripple. 

_Or toss him to the mat. Whichever’s faster_ . 

“I can hear you thinking from over here,” he adds.

“Stop talking, you oversized ostrich. What are you waiting for?”

He gives a low hum like he’s thinking about something. Zen bastard. 

“Speaking of wildlife. Did you know I once travelled to the Northernmost Foja Mountain Range of Papua New Guinea as part of an ecological census? There are – if rumours are to be believed, and I personally think there is always a _shred_ of truth furrowed within any rumour – up to two dozen undiscovered reptilian species on the delta.” He moves then, pulling her in orbit, around the judo mat. “Now, one member of our group was rather concerned that the _Litoria pinocchio_ best fit the genus for a poisonous species. Do you know what it is that I learned on this pilgrimage?”

Edith snorts. “Your distraction tactics work better on frogs than in a fight?” 

“It was a valiant effort.” Holmes says. 

She flexes her fingers, already thinking of pulse points and pain thresholds. “I know what you’re doing. Don’t you dare go easy on me.”

His arms are down, and his stance is casual. Edith’s dealt with men far worse than Sherlock Holmes on this tatami, but she has a sneaking suspicion that that’s not the real danger, here.

His voice is static, broadcasting straight into her troubling line of thought. There’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. It disappears, quick as a minnow in water.

“Ah, that is your folly, you see. It’s not you, Ms. Grayston, that I’m worried about.”   
  


_––-  
  
_

_Earlier that day_

_The Tearoom_ is an unassuming place. Edith likes it that way. She clocks in at 6.30am every day, gives her customary greeting to Neha – an inscrutable combination of elbow bumps, jazz hands, and a handshake – and lines the teacups up with surgical precision. Fortune favours the well-caffeinated, which means the café is always prepared for whatever the day’s battle will bring: whether it’s an army of prams, schoolkids, or Esra from down the street, Edith has a tea mix for every ailment.

Edith likes Neha. And more importantly, she trusts her. When Edith is running late because of the second bus she’s supposed to take doesn’t come, Neha covers for her. More than one time, when the café and work of organizing overwhelms Edith, Neha’s been the one shoving bowls of hot chickpea curry and lamb-filled momo into Edith’s hands, reminding her to eat.

They help each other, and have worked with each other enough that they have a rhythm: moving in a delicate waltz behind the counter space at all times, dispensing smalltalk and earl grey to patrons with equal aplomb. And though the two women started their jobs about six months apart, they have, in their own ways, built enough rapport with the regulars that they start to learn things. Small things, but important things. Like road closures over the weekend, which will affect how Edith and the Coalition will plan their exits after the sit-in is over. Like how Paul, who works dispatch at the station, mentions that they have the mounted division on standby, which means Edith has to send Paulina a text about counter-kettling strategies to plan accordingly. Like how, right as Edith’s clearing away a tray of lemon scones and raspberry jam, she overhears old Betsy from Pope Street telling a neighbour that her son at the Herald’s working overtime to cover the weekend shift, which means the possibility of national – and if the Beeb makes an appearance, even international – news coverage. 

From the cheery blue sign that advertises the community café, to the tidy row of women’s aid pamphlets that hold court over the community bookshelf and the judo gym tucked away behind, this small corner of the universe is Edith’s own. It’s not much, but Edith finds purpose here, and it’s a home. More than that, it’s a place where Edith’s found family. 

Because the world, Edith knows, can be a cruel place. But she finds contemplation and peace in the tearoom, too. In rows of tidily-lined mason jars to sanctify and cleanse. In the ritual of pouring steaming water over fragrant leaves – an invitation, to stop and spend a moment with friends, strangers, neighbours. 

The light outside the windows turns, from slate-grey to sun-dappled, and back again. The people may change. But every day, just for a second, Edith can distill the potential of the world right into the amber liquid in a teapot. 

Which is why it throws everything off balance, one Autumn afternoon, when Sherlock Holmes walks through the door.

“I came to speak to you about your involvement in Saturday’s protests.” Holmes says, without preamble. His standard uniform of navy and greys are a monotone swatch in the bright of the café.

“You know, it’s wonderful – to have you darkening my doorway once more. To what do I owe this extreme displeasure?” 

She spares him the barest of glances as she turns back to the café’s hoover, and re-winds a wire. 

“You do realise, right,” Edith continues, “that normal people might participate in a gentle exchange of greetings before they come crashing through here like a bull in a china shop. Try the following openings: _aren’t the crocuses out late for this time in the year?_ or _my, what unseasonable weather we’re having_ , or maybe even: _have you seen my runaway sister? She seems to have disappeared into the ungentrified end of E8 again_.”

Holmes puts his hands in his pockets. All deceptive relaxation.

“Do you care much about the crocuses? Or the weather?” he replies. 

She gives him a stare that in most circumstances would wither the most staid soul, but Holmes barely blinks. 

It doesn’t escape her notice that he’s also ignored the jibe about his sister, but they both know it’s old news at this point. 

“I care which way the wind’s blowing,” Edith continues, “because pepper spray’s an absolute bitch to get out of the eyes.” 

The corners of his mouth almost turn up into a smile. _Almost._ She catches it, lightening the thundercloud that always seems to settle itself between his brows. And then she’s annoyed that she even notices. 

With a little more force than is strictly necessary, Edith shoves Henry the Hoover back into the cupboard. 

Its googly eyes stare, in accusation, back.

No matter. Just the last wipedown of the café counters, and she’ll be done. 

“Has Neha abandoned you to your duties?” Holmes asks, inspecting a display of potted plants. 

“Temple, today. Something about her parents cajoling her brother into a manhood ceremony and ‘curating content’ for her Instastory. There’s supposed to be a fire pit and everything. For some reason she finds it dead-hilarious.”

“Ah yes, social media. Man’s folly, and greatest invention.”

Edith rolls her eyes, because it’s one of his typically cryptic and generalising statements. She disappears behind the counter, grabbing a mop in her single-minded mission to rid the floor of any dirt. Perhaps if she could put all her focus to scrubbing in straight lines, he might get the damn message.

Because Holmes is a distraction. A physically appealing, admittedly top-notch specimen. But that’s all he is. 

The counter door clicks close and she barely stops herself from freezing, because she realises he’s about two feet away from her. But he’s focused on twiddling with the portafilter on the espresso machine, and avoids her eye contact.

“Judging from the steam emitting from your dishwasher and the extra towels you’ve had to hang up, I suppose it’s been a busy day.” 

“Yes, well done, Holmes. You’ve solved the world’s most elaborate mystery. High-octane traffic in a café, on a bank holiday. Shall I call the _Mail_? They had a field day covering your scandal at Bohemia.” 

“I don’t think that would be necessary.” 

“Anyway,” Edith says, wiping her hands on her apron, “the worst I’ve had to contend with today is a party of six who spent fifteen minutes deciding what cake they wanted, and a six-year-old who refused to eat any pasta that came with sauce. Could be worse. _Much_ worse.”

Holmes peers closer into the circular grouphead of the filter and adjusts it with well-practiced hands.

“Of that, I’m sure. I for one would not be foolish enough to underestimate how capably you can handle yourself.”

Edith isn’t sure what, exactly, to say to that. 

She is, however, sure that this minotaur in an expensive coat is interfering. Sticking his fingers into the belly of the machines and furniture that’s hers. And she doesn’t like that.

“Holmes, stop messing around with the fil–” 

The filter clicks into place and his fingers move quickly, hitting a button to send hot water flowing through the machine. 

He grabs a cup from the nook below to catch the runoff before it spills over.

“ _This_ would be why your coffee is .5 off the ideal acidity count.”

“What?” She peers closer at the machine, conscious of the way that her face is terribly close to his absolutely huge chest. Her cheeks also feel overly warm – which has nothing to do with the puff of air emanating steadily from the steam wand. 

“You might be right, but how did you manage–”

“Now, on the matter of Saturday,” he says, voice placating like he’s speaking to a small child. “I must advise you not to go.”

Edith makes a good show of examining the parts on the already-fixed coffee machine for a rather long time. In the corner of her eye she can see the solid mass that is his arm, and she resists the urge to follow the line of it up to his face, to what she knows must be his irritatingly all-knowing expression.

Edith continues staring at the machine.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to _not go_.”

Challenge hangs in the air. They don’t know each other well, but they know each other enough. This would normally be the part where he makes an on-the-nose observation about why she’s wrong, or a deduction about the type of shoe she’s wearing and something about Cancer being ascendant – which he once did get three-quarters right, because she’s a Virgo with Taurus rising, thank you very much. It would be something in line with the odd rapport they’ve built over the last few months, when they’ve met on more neutral ground. Like Eudoria’s office, or Enola’s terrifyingly elaborate murder mystery parties. Where she might make a witty quip about his excessive Waitrose shopping list, or his terrible cigar habit, to get under his skin. Much as she’s loathe to admit that he occasionally gets under hers. They have a mutual understanding. Even if neither of them would admit it’s a friendship.

But today, Edith finds, she doesn’t have the patience.

“What they’re doing in Westminster goes against everything this country stands for. How can you even stand there and insinuate that I have no place in the conversation? Or that I’d give it up for something as mundane as… as self-preservation? Have you any idea the kind of effort it takes to even _get_ this kind of national airtime?”

He’s leaning on the counter, but he seems uneasy. Fingers tightening a fraction on the surface as he runs another hand through his hair. A dark curl sticks up, and she has the impulse to yank on it so he’d see her point.

“Grayston. I understand, much like my mother and sister, that the worst possible course of action I could take with a person of your determined character would be to implore you not to do something. However, I have confirmation from reliable sources that–”

She takes a step closer to him, pinning him between the cashier’s machine and herself. To his credit, he backs off a few inches. Just.

“What is it that you think I actually do here all day?” Edith asks.

“Hm. Make tea? Cause trouble?”

“Funny, but no. I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but you’re not the only one in this city with ‘reliable sources’. Second-guessing isn’t in my nature. But d’you know what it is I’m asking myself?”

He opens his mouth as if to answer, but she sticks a finger up in front of his face because she refuses to let another rich, self-righteous, well-meaning knobhead lecture her on this ever again.

“Are you here on the auspices of your brother? Why, working in private security getting too boring for you?” 

“No.”

“Right. Because you never bother leaving Zone 1 unless it’s for a triple murder or an international hostage situation. You don’t trouble yourself with the mundane dealings of domestic abuse survivors or, god forbid, immigrants.”

“Edith, I’m not a betting man. But if the discussion on social media is to be believed, there will be fringe elements on Saturday who will push the protest to a radically untenable position.”

She steps even closer to him and stabs a finger at his chest. Is irritated at how firm it is to the touch. 

“What do you know about revolution, Mr. Holmes?”

He peers down at her, and she returns his stare – giving as good as she gets. They’re standing so close that she can see the divot in his chin and the five o’clock shadow on his jaw. 

The moment feels, suddenly, loaded. Her heart’s hammering in her chest and her face feels overly warm. Is she imagining things, or is he parting his lips to–?

A high wheeze from the machine cuts through the exasperation that’s depriving her brain of sense. The coffee machine’s still on. 

Right.

She kills the noise with a flick of a switch and takes a step back, putting space between them.

“Steam.” Holmes says, simply.

“Yes. A coffee machine will do that.” 

_Stupid._

The problem is, Edith isn’t sure if she’s saying it about Holmes, or herself. Perhaps both. 

She needs something to do with her hands, so she brushes a finger along the countertop, looking for nonexistent specks of dust. She counts to five in her head before Holmes speaks again. 

“I avoid getting tangled in the intrigue of politics. That’s much more Mycroft’s arena,” he says, quietly.

“That’s bollocks, and you know it. If you have his ear, and his influence, you ought to do something with it.”

“It isn’t so clear-cut as it may seem.”

If she wasn’t incandescent with rage before, she is now. Just like that, she’s back in his space again. The top of her head barely grazes his chest, but the anger she carries could fill the entire room.

“Is this all a game to you? Do you really not care what happens on Saturday? To the future of this entire country?”

“Empires rise, and empires fall. I find that in my profession, it’s wise not to become too… emotionally attached to the outcome.” 

“Oh, said like a _true_ coloniser. You don’t care, because you have nothing to lose. And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, you bullheaded nonce, but everything is political when it comes down to it. A pebble can be bloody political. Can’t you see?”

She can feel herself losing control, and that is the one thing she had promised herself not to do. Especially not with him. 

So she takes a deep breath and turns away from him, coaxing the old dishwasher to start for her, just one more time. It’s the last task of the day, and one she would’ve been finished with half an hour ago if he hadn’t come in here with his condescending lecture.

“You...” she starts. Stops. She straightens up to look at the wall, before she takes a deep breath and starts again. “You’ve _no_ idea. What it’s like, to be without power. Politics doesn’t interest you, because you’ve no interest in changing a world that suits you so well.” 

If he absorbs this, he doesn’t say a word.

And when she turns around, all she hears is the tinkle of a bell and the autumn leaves rustling in the breeze.

Because he’s already gone.  
  


_––-  
  
_

Friday, the night before. She’s halfway through checking the dojo mats for dings and tallying how much it’ll cost to replace them for the next season, when he appears again. Hovering in the doorway, blocking out half the streetlight that floods into her judoka. 

“Grayston.”

She offers him a grunt in response.

“I take it your plans have not altered with regards to tomorrow.” Holmes continues.

There’s nothing but the soft _fwomp_ of the mats being flipped before she replies. “Why would they?”

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose, like something about what she’s doing directly contravenes the laws that so carefully govern his world. 

_The nerve of this man._

Edith doesn’t turn away from the mat she’s examining. “You owe me an apology.” 

“Can I not come to issue a warning to an old friend?”

“We’re not friends.”

“You strike to wound.”

Edith rolls her eyes. “And god forbid the great Sherlock Holmes deigns to apologise for something he’s wrong about.” 

“So what is it that you would have me do as recompense?”

Edith is suddenly gripped by an idea. 

Her mother always said she had too many ideas. Perhaps it’s why she sees a streak of her rebellious self in Enola.

“Maybe,” she continues, “we should settle this the old-school way.”

“What, shall we draw our pistols and have a duel?”

“Guns? How crass. I can think of better things to do with my hands.” 

Edith settles her business with the mats, and turns around. 

The moment grows, between them. She knows that he, too, has already worked out the logical conclusion to a question neither of them has asked aloud.

It fills her with savage glee. Mind already turning, thinking of ways to make him hurt. 

“Alright, Ms. Grayston. Where do you keep your robes?”   
  


–--  
  


Edith considers herself an overall calm person. But in the confines of her backroom dojo, she quickly feels herself losing control.

“Come on then. You attacking, or not?” she asks.

Holmes makes a soft _hm_ noise and crouches lower in his stance. It does not escape her notice that, clothed in a set of the gym’s largest blue judogis, he looks absolutely gargantuan. 

“Would’ve thought they taught you pugilism at Cambridge.” Edith continues. “Or whatever nonsense it is that you do in those ridiculous hazing rituals.” 

“Nobody’s called it pugilism since the 1800s.” Holmes replies, amused. “Nowadays, we just call it boxing.”

Pugilism or not, she decides that that’s enough of that, and lunges forward to grab him by the lapels. Thinking that in doing so, maybe she can at least swing him around so she can get him within grappling range, or hook the inside of his calf to snare him to the ground. Her grip on him is iron-tight. But it’s about as effective as tossing a pebble at a brick wall. 

Considering the trophies that line the staffroom cabinet, Edith really should have the upper hand here. But in her estimation, he’s probably two times above what her normal weight class would be, and what he lacks in experience, he makes up for with pure heft. 

She tries a feint – flashing her left arm out, quick as lightning to his belt. He doesn’t fall for it, and grabs her shoulder to keep an arm’s length distance between them. 

So he has more technique than he gives himself credit for. She was a fool to think that his poshness meant he wouldn't know his way around a fight, and that’s the real surprise. 

They’re locked in this hold for a moment. Both of them still as glaciers before the fall. In any other context it might be misconstrued as intimate, but right now Edith just feels she’s on the knife’s edge of something truly vicious. 

Edith pushes forward to try and shift him off his center. It’s already beginning to feel worryingly, like a sisyphean task. His hands are as big as dinner plates, easily spanning her shoulders. She grits her teeth in determination, willing herself not to let this match be over before it even begins. 

It isn’t entirely a foregone conclusion though. She roots herself into the ground and shoves with all the force she has, and he still tenses to avoid her momentum. 

“How,” she grunts, “the fuck. Are you. So huge.”

“I thought you were the one who proposed to settle this the ‘old-school’ way, Grayston. I was in favour of a more moderate approach. Perhaps a civil discussion.”

That sparks anger, low and roiling, in the pit of her stomach. 

“ _Fuck_ civil discussions.” 

She ducks, quick as a cat, and _that_ catches him sufficiently off guard. In the span of a breath she darts low to grab him by the waist, and she almost manages to hoist him up to throw him to the ground. He shifts and recovers his balance just in time. 

She can’t help it. She gives a growl of frustration.

The attack leaves her gripping onto him, so close she can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. Despite the autumnal chill curling into the room, the dojo suddenly feels overly warm.

Edith has a theory she wants to test out. With careful deliberation, she pivots and leaves him an opening. One so obvious that even a less experienced fighter like him would catch. He could easily do a pull-sweep from the side, and knock her to the ground. It makes her vulnerable.

It could take a second, or a few. For the spectator, the difference between a judo win or loss is a blink of an eye. For the two locked in the bout, it could be an eternity.

But he doesn’t do it. This confirms a creeping suspicion she’s had since they started the bout. 

She releases him.

“You’re holding back.”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Liar. Tackle me properly.”

His lips are pressed into a thin line. Holmes doesn’t step away or concede any ground. Yet she can tell from the rise and fall of his chest, and the wariness that’s emanating off of him, that he’s retreated. 

It isn’t visible to the eye, but something in Edith snaps. Perhaps in the outside world, grace is a requisite. In the outside world, all of her words are weighted, calibrated in such a way that everything she does is careful, with consideration for consequence. Because in Edith’s experience, privilege isn’t something as simple as a ladder. Being a triple threat of Black, British, and Female: it’s really more of a Bermuda triangle that she carries daily, trying not to sink under the weight of other people’s false expectations. She’s accustomed to shrinking her rage, flattening herself to make herself less threatening in a world that prefers not to see people like her.

Nothing so elaborate like deception. Just a simple choice she makes when she gets out of bed in the morning. 

Call it necessity. Hiding, in plain sight.

The mat is the one place that’s been a constant. A refuge. A place she can tap into her dammed-up rage, and give it a channel to run free.

 _You won’t deny me this,_ she thinks.

“I’m not fragile. Do this properly, or not at all.”

“Are you quite sure about this?”

She gives him a single nod. “Deadly.” 

In return, Holmes dusts his hands, as if to say, _well, if you insist._

This time, she closes the distance between them, but swoops low. He favours his left side, so she goes for the right, curling into herself for momentum to lever him upwards and throw. He anticipates that, and grabs her belt to wrench her off her balance. But Edith holds firm. 

In the millisecond that passes, she glances up at him, expecting him to be angry or maybe even bored. But instead, she finds his pristine hair mussed. A flush high on his cheeks, too.

Instead of stopping to think about the implications, instinct takes over.

“This is not–” he begins. 

Edith steps closer. She pivots, and throws him. 

“– _Oof.”_

He goes down like a sack of potatoes. She wastes no time: scrambling onto him and slinging her knees around his waist, pinning him in a four-quarter hold. Her right arm snakes around his neck, and she tightens her chokehold around him. He struggles, but she’s fortified by triumph and doesn’t budge an inch. 

He pants hard into the crook of her elbow and she wrenches his other arm, large as a ham, upwards. In her mind’s eye she thinks of slain dragons, or the conquered in an iconoclast. 

It’s a matter of seconds before he taps his fingers: once, twice, three times on her upper arm, to signal submission.

_1-0, Edith._

“ _Ha_ ,” she says, vindictive. Releasing him just enough to appraise the beast she’s brought down.

But the way he’s looking up at her now, breaths shallow, pupils blown wide…

It takes Edith a minute to parse it all together. But that expression – she realises, with alarm – is hunger. 

She moves as if to put some distance between them, but his hand comes up to engulf hers. A tide, shifting.

_Oh no, no no._

But, she sees the plea in his expression, and _fucked_ if she doesn’t want him. Not even a little bit. A small and treacherous voice inside her says: _take it, it’s where this road was leading all along_. 

She listens. With one breath, she closes the distance, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WhAt HapPenS nExT??? Find out in the next episode of: not-health-and-safety-approved Judo!
> 
> The story is complete, I'll post the second chapter in the next week or so...
> 
> Kudos, comments, emoji strings, gentle concrit welcome. 
> 
> Yell at me on [Twitter](https://www.twitter.com/bobaheadshark)! Getting into this multiship business, I confess I am mostly a reylo, oop


	2. Oak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating going up to E 😏😏 smut, ahoy!
> 
> Thankingtons again to my betas YL, S, and sensitivity reader Soph for the help.

* * *

  
All it takes is a second. A single second, between an impulse and a decision. Holmes's jolt of surprise tells Edith that he feels it, too. Whatever it is they would call this. And it takes a second before his body gives in, and his lips move over hers, searching and wanting. 

At first it’s a pretty good facsimile of gentle, but then reality seems to catch up. He tastes her with adventurous passes of his tongue as she tightens her grip on his sweaty grappling attire, and there’s a give and take of their mouths on each other. He tastes like spearmint and oolong. Her palms sweep over his shoulders and her brain is yelling _what the fuck?_ and _fuck yes_ at the same time.

One of his hands snakes up to her neck, and he holds her there as he deepens the kiss. She has half a mind to tell him to shove off, but the rest of her brain is swimming in serotonin and she doesn’t want to make sense of that hormonal alphabet soup today. 

She sweeps one palm across the plane of his huge, huge chest and suddenly this doesn’t feel like such a bad idea. Holmes pushes himself up from the mat while her legs are still hooked around his waist, and _oh good god is that massive thing his cock,_ her brain yells. 

It jolts her out of it momentarily enough to blink away the sex-haze. 

(Edith remembers that the last time she’d made out with someone so messily was some poor sod on a gap year in Mallorca. He’d freaked out and ran out of the bathroom when she knocked him against the wall too hard. 

Somehow, she doesn’t think this is going to be a problem with Holmes.) 

Holmes, for his part, keeps his hands respectfully at the small of her back. He seems slightly dazed, and she has the instinct to test him. So she grinds down a little on his cock, and apparently he likes that, because he gives out a groan that threatens to fracture the calm he normally wears like a precious cloak. 

Holmes’ judogi is half undone already, and Edith takes the opportunity to run her hands over the expanse of his chest. She prays the ghost of Kiro Jigoro isn’t watching over the moment right now, because that would be mighty inconvenient. 

“I’d hazard that there are too many layers between us. But that may be over-presumptuous.”

Her nipples tighten under the heat of his gaze.

“Perhaps we should do something about that.” Edith says.

“An excellent idea.”

She reaches for her belt and yanks her arms out of her judogi sleeves. That leaves her in her grappling t-shirt and uniform bottoms while she works on his belt. He moves to shrug off his clothes but her hands come up to stop them, and she’s breathing harder than usual. 

She peels open his tunic, and it’s like Christmas has come early. And glorious he is, all contained strength and restraint. It takes everything in her not to gawk at the sight of him, because it’s one matter to know that he’s a brickhouse. But seeing it with her own damned eyes and that she has the control – it sends a ping of desire straight to her cunt.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re fucking stacked.”

And the bastard _shrugs_. 

“Oh, and you’re a smug arsehole,” she adds.

“Suppose I’ll have to work hard to make it up for the follies of my barely tolerable personality.”

“Shut up, and put that mouth to better use, will you?”

Then her lips meet his again. Slower this time, luxuriating in it before she bites down on his tongue, which results in a thrust of his hips right under hers. It feels right to pin his wrists to the mat in this position, and that elicits a low groan from him. Something in her brain, her instinct for self-preservation, threatens to short-circuit.

They pull away for a second.

“How long’s it been since you’ve done this?” she asks.

“The answer may surprise you,” he says, eyeing the hem of her T-shirt as he inches the hem upwards, “but I don’t actually do this very often.”

“Right. Well, then.”

The moment threatens to bloom into awkwardness, but she pulls her remaining clothing over her head to hide her face, and then she quickly gets distracted by the way one of his huge hands moves upwards to palm her tits. 

“You’re...something else.” Holmes says.

In response, she thwacks him hard on the chest.

“Ow?” he says, without budging.

“Don’t joke around, that’s not funny.”

His expression’s serious, and he pushes away an errant curl that’s fallen across her face. 

“I mean it.”

“Ha-ha.” Edith tries to swipe at him, but he presses her palm to his chest, and covers her hand with his. There’s nothing delicate in it, but it reads like an assurance. 

“If you don’t believe me, at least let me show you.”

Edith yanks her hand away. “I don’t think so. I wiped this entire place down before you got here. No way are you eating me out on a bunch of exercise mats. Not cleaning that again.”

“I can think of a better idea.”

There’s mischief in his expression. It makes him look boyish, younger than his thirty-something years. Which makes Edith realise how much he carries with him, while he’s on a case. 

She narrows her eyes at him as if to say _what._ His hands haven’t moved from her breasts. In fact, they’re tracing circles around the tips of her nipples, which is incredibly distracting. And frustrating, because it makes her just that much wetter. 

To her surprise, he barely breaks the rhythm with his hands as he lies back and scoots her up his body. She’s confused for a second, and about to say something when he drops one hand from her chest and starts grinding out a rhythm so good on her clit that she can’t help but roll her hips along with it.

“Shit,” she hisses through her teeth. 

“I think,” he says, tucking a thumb into the waistband of her knickers through her pants, “these need to come off. If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“If this is what you’ll continue doing? Be my guest.”

Her wish is clearly his command, because then her bottoms come off as well, and he’s pulling her underwear down – and is that sigh coming from _her?_ when –

“Are those… teapots?”

Edith’s cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the sexual twister she’s somehow gotten herself into.

“It’s laundry day, alright?” Edith says. 

But the look that he gives her then, between confusion and amusement, threatens to stop her in her tracks. And that would be inconvenient, feeling any sympathy for a man who’s openly professed to not care an ounce about her political emancipation, or the structures of power that incapacitate people who aren’t like him. That would be very inconvenient indeed.

“I’m not complaining,” Holmes adds, for good measure.

It’s a bit awkward as she tries to get her knickers off while she’s kneeling on top of him, but she manages. Then his fingers stroke a pleasant rhythm on the inside of her thighs as she marvels at how controlled he’s being. 

“Holmes, you know, I’m sweat–”

“Somehow, Ms. Grayston, I don’t think that is going to be a problem.”

It feels like he’s been circling her thighs for what feels like ages, and the buildup gets so intense that she starts grinding down on his face. But he holds onto her hips, imploring her to wait. 

And it happens without much preamble. One minute he’s looking reverently at her and she’s trying not to scream from how much she wants him to just fucking do it already. And the next, he’s eased himself further down and put her cunt square onto his face. 

She grips the mat harder under her hands, such is the pleasure that winds itself straight into her core as he licks and kisses to open her up. Doing absolutely filthy things with his tongue right at the centre of her. And then it’s his mouth over cunt, his nose pressing pleasantly against her clit, and she moans, urging him on – purring for him like a goddamned cat. 

He breaks the pressure for a second and she feels feral. 

“Should I keep going?”

“You talk too much,” Edith blurts out, as she yanks him by the hair back to his prize. Not before she catches the look of satisfaction that crosses his face though. _Arsehole._

He’s entirely focused on her, and seems to respond with her enthusiastic noises with equal intensity. Between squirming on his face and the tingle that’s building up right at the base of her neck, she feels like she should be doing something to return the favour. Edith pushes herself up from where she is on all fours, but he puts a palm on her ass to keep her where she is. The message is clear as day: her pleasure, first. It’s like being under a spotlight, and the thought of it threatens to send her out of her damned mind.

It’s just the fuzzy, electric pleasure of buildup, the sound of him eating her out in the quiet room, and a “ _holy fucking shit_ ” and she’s coming – eyes shutting, thighs twitching around his face as he holds on to her legs, and he’s lapping her up like it’s the best meal he’s ever had. 

He releases her hips from his face with a gentle huff and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Scoots out from under her and they share a long look, waiting for her to make the next move. 

Right then.

“Care to take these off, too?” Edith says, glancing down at the fabric on his hips.

“Much obliged.”

Then, a slight shift of position so that she’s back on his lap, and they’re making out again. And it’s lewd, how good it is. Hands everywhere as they feel each other out, a gasp – his – when her hand finally brushes his cock and he’s shucking his pants right on the dojo floor. 

So much for hygiene. She’s going to need at least four bottles of Dettol to clear away the smell of sex on this mat. Sacrifices. 

“So, it would only be responsible of me to ask – do you… have a condom, or a contraceptive of some sort?” Holmes says, chest heaving.

“You didn’t bring one?”

“I thought a lot of things might happen tonight, Ms. Grayston. I did not deduce that this would be one of them.”

Edith is a little surprised. But she recovers, quickly, and makes a decision.

“I last got tested a couple of months ago. Came back negative. And I have an IUD,” she says. 

“Likewise. On the negative, not the IUD, clearly.” Holmes replies, a bit too quickly, and a little bashful. “Not that there’s been anyone to speak of, regardless.” _Interesting_. 

Edith acknowledges this with a curt nod. “Right. Erm, so...shall we?” 

“Yes. Let’s.” 

Then it’s a puzzle they’re making, how they’re exploring each other’s bodies. All leisure and satisfaction. He lies back so that she’s still on top, and for once he seems to be speechless. It’s nice to be held like this, one hand on her waist and the other between her shoulder blades. And his cock twitches against her, pre-come already sticky on the inside of her thighs. 

_Bloody hell, this was not how I thought this night was going to go._

But all her thoughts go out the window once he slips inside of her. 

“Fuuuuucking hell.” Edith may not be religious, but Christ on a goddamned cracker, has she ascended. “Holmes, mate. I’m not sure anyone’s told you, but you’re… huge.” 

He has the audacity to look mildly embarrassed at that. 

“I’m...only halfway in.”

“Oh. Good god.” She’s wet, but it’s still a tight fit. “Okay. Uh, could you… play with my tits, maybe?”

He takes to his task diligently, not hesitating before he takes one of her nipples in his mouth and sucks. Pleasure snakes up her spine and she reaches down to touch herself, while he thrusts his hips gently up into her – and suddenly she’s slick again, and the angle’s just right. 

He bottoms out inside her.

“Good. God.” Edith grits out.

“Yerghnermergh” 

“Can’t hear you with a mouth full of tits.”

He releases her nipple from his mouth to look at her.

“Sorry. Meant to say – good for you?”

“Um. Yes. Very fucking good.” _Kindly continue blowing my back out._ She wants to say. _Kindly continue giving me the best lay of my life, you absolute molten cadbury tower._

“What did you say?”

Bugger. That last bit must’ve been out loud.

“Nothing.”

It takes her a second to adjust to the newness of it. But then she starts rolling her hips to find the rhythm, and it’s like riding a tidal wave on instinct. She’s full of cock and his hands are everywhere and the way he’s looking up at her is so fucking phenomenal, and it’s there again. Pleasure blooming, everywhere. Not like how it is when she’s using her own hands on herself, but a slow avalanche of it, devoid of judgment or shame.  
  


\---  
  


 _Can you get carpet burn from a rubber mat?_ comes a small voice in her head. No matter. Not a concern for now, because Holmes seems to be panting somewhere into the vicinity of her chest, and she’s determined to return the favour.

“Edith, I–” 

She hushes him with her index finger. “Shh. I think it’s your turn, isn’t it? All work and no play does a boring man make.” 

He nods then, understanding. In a tangle of limbs and slick sweat, she’s positioned him behind her, like what they’re about to do would be too intimate face-to-face. 

It’s just the briefest pressure before he’s notched into her, hitting a bundle of nerves so deep she wants to cry out, but she bites that down. There’s a bead of sweat working its way down the side of her face towards her eyes, but she doesn’t want to break the perfection of how this feels. 

“That’s it,” she says, low. An entreaty. He picks up the rhythm, and with a pass of his palm down her spine, she chooses to cede control – letting him set the pace. And it’s terrifying, how much she’s willing to give him in this liminal space. Any sense of decorum now well and truly lost. 

“You like it, don’t you. This.” Edith says. _Me,_ she also thinks.

Looking back at it later, she won’t be sure, exactly, what she says next, words tossed casually over her shoulder. _You think you’re better than the rest of us, don’t you? You and your little superiority complex. Nice, isn’t it. Not being so in control? That’s right, work a little harder. On your fucking knees, where you belong._

It’s of the moment and the moment alone, all in service of getting him where he needs to go. It’s then that she hears it, in the hitch of his breath, the flex of a hand as it comes to cover hers once more, and a soft “fuck, Edith, please–” as his teeth graze her neck. And it’s so good. She moans, so loud it probably has its own damn measurement on the richter scale. Just like that, he comes. Shuddering and spilling into her, a surrender. And just like that, she knows. 

A thought occurs to her, before he sighs and lays his weight on top of her. It’s oddly comforting that way. 

_Dangerous territory, this. The potential for affection.  
  
_

_\---  
  
_

Later, Edith thinks to herself that she’s pretty sure she’s died. Died and gone to heaven, except her vision of heaven had far more of Idris Elba feeding her grapes, and far less of Holmes flushed and panting next to her. Nonetheless, the planes and divots of Sherlock’s body are a surprisingly compelling bonus to her mental mise-en-scene. 

She feels… oddly blank. But sated. Like her brain’s been temporarily emptied of noise and distraction. In the quiet of the evening, after getting thoroughly and utterly railed...there’s room to think. 

Perhaps that’s why they call it _un petit mort_.

She snorts to herself and pulls his coat closer. In the aftermath, she hadn’t been quite ready to move, so he’d gotten the sense to pull his briefs back on and tossed his coat over them both. 

Holmes lays down, an arm covering his eyes. 

“Ms Grayston. I do believe you’re staring,” he says, voice muffled. 

“Call off the search for the Elgins, Holmes.”

“Hm?”

“Because you look like you’re made of…” Edith does a _braap braap_ sign, “marble.” 

Sherlock groans into his arm.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Grayston. I’m afraid that because of that horrific pun, I’m going to have to kill you.”

“Please. That would mean you have to chase me. We both know the only person you’d do that for is locked in a maximum security prison.”

She doesn’t need to see his face to know that he’s frowning. “Must you paint such an accurate portrait of my personal foibles?”

“You know it’s true.”

He makes a _hmph_ noise as if he doesn’t want to pick a fight about it, but they both know she’s right. 

For a while, there’s nothing but the low hum of the radiator running. Edith can feel the evening chill creeping in, and the pressing matter of organising for a national protest at the crack of dawn. Time might have stopped for the last two hours or so, but already her mental rolodex is straining with things she needs to do: messages she needs to respond to, finalizing logistics with Neha, calling in last-minute favours for food supplies for the sit-in…

Reality beckons.

“Much as I’d like to sleep for a thousand years after that, I’ve got work to do,” she says.

“To sleep, perchance, to dream. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil?”

Edith rolls her eyes. “‘Course you quote Shakespeare wholesale. Love nothing more than a huge bloody Danish tragedy, don’t you? It’s all by Marlowe, anyway.”

“Ah, in this world, we must all have our earthly pleasures.”

The archness of it is unmistakable. _S_ he elbows him in the ribs. 

He recoils slightly, but the expression on his face is unsettling. 

“Have I got something on my nose?” Edith says. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

 _Like you’re interested in the one thing that we both know would be an awful idea._ _Like you expect that something as simple as attraction could cause either of us to waver from our principles. Like you care._

“Is this the part where you pull a line on me like, ‘you’re not what I expected’ or ‘I’ve never been with anyone like you before?” Edith says, trying to defuse the situation. 

His smile breaks like sunlight across his face. She wonders what it’d be like, standing in the full force of that. 

_Shit. Inconvenient, these awful_ feelings. _Back in the box they go._

“Nothing of the sort.” He looks down at his hands and flexes his fingers as if he’s itching to do something, but seems to think better of it. He says the next words out loud, more towards the back window than to Edith. Because they both know the confession that’s coming is too heavy to be held by the precarious column of this...thing they’ve built. 

Two of them, shrapnel in the mess. 

“Edith. You’re just… you.” 

And that feels apt, somehow.

Friend. Woman. Survivor. 

Enough.

Edith holds it for a moment, and lets it warm her. 

The clock on the wall reads 11, but the numbers might as well be an alarm. Yet with the silence comes a moment to contemplate.

Perhaps she and Sherlock don’t know each other well, but since Enola ran away from the family estate, she and Holmes have formed an uneasy alliance. Edith’s always sensed that for all their camaraderie, there’s been a line in the sand they’ve never crossed when it concerns political duty. 

Because for all his worldliness, and his strange charm, he is a blue-blooded man. With all the privileges that can afford. They orbit different universes, and it’s only through the headstrong women of the Holmes household, and chance, that Edith and Sherlock’s worlds ever collided. 

“You know,” Edith finally says. “Eudoria and Enola thought you’d just ignore the whole protest situation, like the ostrich that you are. It’s easy for you to do. You can afford to.” 

She sits straighter, and turns to look at him. “But you know what compels me, when I stand in front of that line? The women in hospitals and detention centres who are too poor, tired, and angry to fight, to fight a system that stacks the odds against them every time they even try. The third-generation immigrants in Lambeth who opened their doors and made me feel at home, more than this government ever has. That Grenfell is four miles apart from a Palace that’s built on the ashes of an empire, and yet this travesty of _have_ and _have nots_ blights this city to its core. The people will inherit the world we’ve sown. I owe it to them to balance the scales.”

Holmes gives a long exhale. 

“You can’t change the world on your own, Edith. That would be too much to ask of one person.” 

“You’re right,” she says, resolute. “But I’m not going to stop trying.”

The dusky evening light has turned to night now, and Edith can no longer ignore the chimes of her phone. Resolve hardens her heart, a place she thought she’d papered over, and now it’s time to cover it back up. 

She pulls her clothes back on. Her work beckons. And she will give her all to it. 

She just wishes it were less tiring, sometimes.

“For what it’s worth,” Holmes says, peering up at her from the mats. “I’m sorry for walking out earlier today. For choosing wilful ignorance, where I shouldn’t have. I can’t make excuses for my abdication of responsibility or the errors of judgment I’ve made. But I’d like to do better.”

She tucks her _judogi_ under her arm, and weighs her next words carefully.

“That may be. But you have the world at your feet, Sherlock.” Edith says, handing him his coat. “So what are you going to do with it?”  
  


\---  
  


The text he sends her the morning of doesn’t say much. To the casual observer, it means nothing. To Edith, the two words, _scarlet korosko_ , are crucial intelligence that tells her which way to go, and what to prepare.

Saturday itself is a blur or chanting. Witty placards, cheap sandwiches, and tightly-held hands.

At Westminster, more than a few protestors show up in full fancy dress. Edith spots more than a few handmaidens, a contingent of steampunkers, and even a two-person T-Rex suit – alongside the requisite signs that run the full gamut from funny to sobering: _I crossed the River for this; I hate facism more than i hate crowds;_ and _the leftists were right_ . Earlier, she’d passed coordinates to Eudoria, and even spotted a young lady with a badge-emblazoned denim jacket weaving through the crowd, with a fleet-footedness that could only belong to one Enola Holmes. The North London division have brought an old-school boombox and she waves to Alex from the LGBTQI group, who are giving out pamphlets. Neha excitedly tells Edith she thinks she’s seen one of the blokes from _Star Wars_ , and Edith tells Neha she’s spent too much time on the internet. (Tomorrow’s newspapers would prove Neha right.)

Then, the police bang their riot shields. Edith holds tighter onto Neha’s hand. 

Both their hands are shaking, but Edith looks over at Neha, and a calm settles.

“This is an unlawful assembly. You have five minutes to disperse,” comes a bored voice on a microphone, at odds with the gravity of the situation.

Instructions move down the crowd, from the left. _Hold the line._

Edith steels herself. 

Then, a presence. Solid as a wall. It’s a sea of sweat and smoke, but she’d know his oak and amber smell anywhere. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” she says, drily.

“Thought to find out what the commotion was all about.”

“Nice of you to grace us. Where’s your brother?”

Holmes seems to think about it, before he answers.

“For once in his life, perhaps up to some good.”

“ _Is_ he now. Persuade him to see things from a different point of view?”

A baritone voice a few heads down starts singing _Good Morning_ in their best Gene Kelly voice.

“Even Pluto, once in a while, has to come within orbit of the sun.” Holmes says, cryptic as ever. 

She rolls her eyes. “That barely makes sense. And anyway, what does that make you? Styx?”

“It makes me part of something bigger, perhaps.”

And they don’t hold hands. Nothing as clichéd as that. 

But Edith thinks of the old Chinese proverb she heard once. About a bundle of sticks, when held closer together, become infinitely more difficult to break apart.

There isn’t much time to dwell on proverbs after that. A warning siren in the air, and shouting, and experience tells Edith that whatever commotion has started further up the line is making its way down to her. 

Edith chances one more look at him before it all kicks off: Holmes’ mouth is set in a determined line, and even he seems a little more rumpled than usual. Like he’d left somewhere in a hurry.

He gives her a level stare.

“Ready?” he asks.

Edith nods.

Trees rustle in the breeze. In the air, the buzz of a livewire, about to be tripped. Except the livewire is the human mass, them. 

“Do your worst.” Edith tells him.

He’s quiet for a second. She doesn’t need to hear the answer to know what it already is.

“That’s a promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! This was my fic-baby for what felt like the longest time and I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Kudos, comments, gentle concrit welcome!
> 
> Find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/bobaheadshark) (where I'm active) and [Tumblr](http://tumblr.com/bobaheadshark) (where I'm... less so) 
> 
> :)


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